


noctiluca

by pearypie



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, F/M, Longing, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-02-09 23:36:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12899286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: Greek myth au: the god of death has a fondness for the girl with indigo hair."He admires the swan-like delicacy of her neck, the beautiful way she seems to exist, half torn between Valhalla and the abyss."





	1. Climb the Rose Vine

You came, and I was mad for you

And you cooled my mind that burned with longing

-  _Sappho_

 

* * *

  

He watches her, sitting in front of a rose vine boudoir, admiring her reflection in the looking glass. Though she is not vain, she is beautiful and he would be a fool not to admit such a simple truth even to himself.

From the hidden angle of his shadowed cove, he sees the delicate pearl-white of the inside of her wrist, the way she picks up the ivory hairbrush and strokes it through the midnight blue of her hair. He admires the swan-like delicacy of her neck, the beautiful way she seems to exist, half torn between Valhalla and the abyss.

Kaneki moves closer, wanting to take in the ripe fullness of her mouth, how it has been stained crimson from the berries she’s consumed while sitting here, in her marble palace of light and eternity.

Would she look away? Would she embrace him fondly? He chuckles at his own absurdity. She will not see him if he does not wish it but he cannot help but think that a curse—he sees her, every moment of every day, perusing these gold-flecked halls, wandering the agora, cupping pink and white lily blossoms in fair, delicate hands.

She is sharp as a knife when she speaks and her words cut deeper than the sword of his warlord brother. Unlike him, this fragile human girl is tied to the moon: the waning, waxing, inconstant moon—and Kaneki has no right to dictate a future he cannot even touch.

 _We are above them, my son,_ the witch would often say, one hand wiping the worry from his brow, and he—young and foolish and so tremendously in love—fell to the curve of her lips.

And then, all of a sudden, immortality was upon him.

 

He shakes away these melancholy thoughts, knowing there are hours he cannot spare. He will not waste them drowning in black thoughts and hatred, particularly when he is here, with her.

She has left her cushioned seat for the sunlit terrace outside her window, moving nymph-like through ivory and gold. Silk and chiffon decorate her body, draping over lithe, porcelain limbs like water. She is human but there is something extraordinary about her, as if—many lifetimes ago—she were consort to some unearthly king. The way her brows furrow, the gentle curve of her cheek...how she is both patient and impulsive, with an open smile and a closed soul and when he sees this, Kaneki wishes to give her all he has.

He wants goddesses and fairies as her handmaidens while diamond dewdrops decorate prominent collarbones and ivory hands.

He wants something of this unearthly girl and her unearthly love. 

Yet his desires, overwhelming as they are indecipherable, remain trapped in stasis as she continues to stand there, staring at the rose faded sky. 

“And so it begins,” he hears her murmur, sounding displeased and resigned and strangely determined. It confuses him, the way they write themselves out, etching poetry on her skin and for a creature such as he, who has lived lifetimes and centuries, it is an intoxicating contradiction.

Because _truly,_  how does one feel _so much_ when they understand so little? Human lives are fleeting—brief, fragmented moments colored by his sisters—the rising dawn, the golden sun, the blue of evening. Humans are not meant for complexity or change; their lives are stagnant and wholly unfulfilled, broken carvings writ by some ancient hand—

Kaneki bites his tongue, catching and suppressing these thoughts because, he tries to remember, they are not _his._ They are the witch’s words and he was once hers to command.

“I’m lonely.” His indigo girl says suddenly, catching Kaneki’s attention once more. “I’m sad. I’m _angry_ and confused and want to _scream_ —“ she tugs at the gold bracelet on her left wrist, “I want to scream but why should I? Who would hear me? Who would _care_ to hear me?” She whispers, quiet and strong in the blooming dusk. “I have been born for this—and it is not such a difficult task. After all,” she chuckles, “if not me then who? Ayato?” 

She seems to laugh, as if entertained by that strange, absurd idea. 

 _Ayato._ Kaneki recognizes that name—it is her brother, the one who fought alongside Augustus and was given Egypt for his service.  _Ayato._

And suddenly, Kaneki does not like him but he cannot quite pinpoint why—all he knows is that the hour has ended and he can hear his sister calling him, demanding he return to his palace below.

Itori has always been a demanding one but now, even he cannot blame her.

The sky itself has become a vibrant, passionate violet and the indigo princess with her midnight hair has left the balcony to return inside inside, though her expression is no longer serene. She looks a solider, preparing for battle with her spine ramrod straight. Often Kaneki forgets that the softness of her body is illusory, that her veins have been filled with a passion that he has become addicted to and a vitality that he, as a god, cannot conjure. 

_Goodnight…_

_Touka._ He mouthes these words, as if afraid to say them out loud, before tendrils of black vapor surround him and the elaborate Corinthian columns of her bedroom melt away. Smoke and darkness bid him in fond greeting while black granite sprawls out before him, as towers of obsidian rise and rivers of mist-water flow.

Charon bows.

“Your majesty.”

_And so it begins._

He smiles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yeeeah…I’ve never written for the TG fandom before but I was on a Greek mythology kick lmao (feedback would be appreciated—seriously, critiques welcome. I really, really hope I didn’t write Kaneki or Touka too out of key)


	2. Begin the Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Kaneki: the successor of Hades, god of the underworld 
> 
> \- Itori: the goddess of wine, revelry, ritual madness, fertility, and theater (Dionysus) 
> 
> \- Amon: god of the sea, earthquakes, storms, and horses (Poseidon) 
> 
> \- Akira: the goddess of wisdom, war, poetry, and art (Athena) 
> 
> \- Nishiki: god of trade, thieves, travelers, sports, and border crossings; guide to the Underworld and messenger of the gods (Hermes) 
> 
> \- Kimi: goddess of magic, crossroads, ghosts, witchcraft, and necromancy (Hecate) 
> 
> \- Hinami: goddess of strength, speed, and victory (Nike)

Itori loves her brother. He’s a bit of a self-effacing character with a terrible martyr complex and lingering, pesky human emotions that, more often than not, cloud his judgement on all things macabre and unseemly. It would have been funny had he not been the god of death himself, the patron deity of all that lay beneath the earth—her jewels, her gold, and her rotting, inevitable decay. It’s a hideous picture but Itori doesn’t mind—she’s made of far sterner stuff and is, for the most part, deliciously inebriated most of the time.

Being the goddess of wine and revelry is a terrifically wonderful excuse to drink to excess without any clamoring from her more conservative siblings. Hinami, of course, would never dare chide Itori—at least not publicly and even then her rebuke was gentle—but Kaneki. Oh _Kaneki_ would skew her with those disarmingly gentle eyes, filled to the brim with concern and tender affection and the slightest hint of worry even though she _is_ a goddess and goddesses would never be found dead in their bathtubs.

She says as much when Kaneki opens his mouth during their private supper, those big grey eyes of his sad and mournful all over again when Itori cuts him off.

“There are times, dear brother, when you mind others so insensibly that your concern turns to smothering—and that, in turn, forces me to wreck havoc throughout your realm until you remember that I am not only far older than you but also far less _patient._ ” She says with a fatal gleam in her dark amber eyes, looking more predatory than playful.

Kaneki, sensible boy he is, takes the hint.

“My apologies, sister.” He nods and Itori pours herself a sloshing glass of honey wine in full view of his face.

He says nothing.

“Wonderful!” She cheers gamely, snapping her fingers so she is now seated next to Kaneki. The banquet table—a lush rectangular plane of ebony wood—has more than enough food placed on it to feed all of Caesar’s armies but Itori prefers drink to lamb and her brother’s appetite is a wretchedly unpredictable thing. “Now that the obvious has been addressed, let us begin on another topic of discussion.”

His lips quirk at his sister’s exuberant statements that have him feeling far older than his half century and her, far younger. “What would you like to discuss, sister?”

“Your depressingly pathetic misery.” She replies blithely, watching from the corner of her eye as Kaneki chokes (on _what_ she has no idea—didn’t he remember? Gods don’t need to _breathe_ ) before coughing indelicately, cheeks tinged pink. “Oh sweet mercy, it’s worse than I thought.” Itori mocks though not at all unkindly—there is a faint gleam of sympathy in her pretty, pretty eyes and she bites her tongue to keep the harsher comments at bay. “You look, dearest brother, like a wounded puppy.”

“I—it’s _not_ …that is—“

“Are we going to take turns speaking in fragments or is there a sentence behind all that gibberish you’re sprouting?”

“It…isn’t anything of particular importance.” He manages after a while, eyes flickering to his polished onyx ring before fixing Itori with an impressively imperial gaze.

Unfortunately, she is his sister—his _older,_ flamboyant, gorgeously intuitive sister—and she will not be deterred.

“You’re a wretched liar when it comes to affairs of the heart, Kaneki-love.” She smiles. “ _My, my_ —imagine the scandal! The underworld king scavenging the earthly realm for a _mortal._ Truly brother, you are far too literary for my tastes. Perhaps you were a poet in another life.”

“I was no poet.” He says darkly though his eyes are clear. His control, then, has improved greatly—there is a new stateliness about him that was entirely absent five decades ago, when he blushed and stammered at every address, when his hands were so gentle they provoked mockery and his heart so soft it was sickening.

Now, however, _now_ her brother, seated with careless grace on a chair that is rather modest in comparison to his palace, legs spread apart and no crown on his head—well.

He radiates an aura of spectacular infamy, marred only by the longing that he still can’t quite shake.

“Tell me, have you fallen in love with her or is she simply an amusement to wile away the hours? Eternity, brother dearest, can be quite dull without the proper entertainm—”

“She is no such thing!” Kaneki protests with a force that knocks the two off kilter—the open, easy smile on Itori’s face vanishes and, for a brief moment, the crimson in her brother’s eyes bleeds a warning that is just shy of death. His knuckles are white as he grips at the armrests of his dining chair, too afraid to let go for fear of unleashing mass murder and Itori—

Oh, Itori _laughs._ At first she attempts to smother her giggles but honestly, it’s just _too much._ The honey wine in her chalice spills and Kaneki watches in amazement as his graceful, seductive sister is reduced to a fit of hysterical laughter that confuses and irritates him beyond measure.

“Itori!”

“No, no,” she manages, “brother dearest, I just—“ Itori breaks into another fit of giggles before placing one hand over her heart in the truest imitation of honesty, “apologies—again.” She takes a breath, rights her chalice, and smiles. “My dear _foolish_ younger brother—you are truly following in the footsteps of your predecessor are you not?”

He frowns, unsure and handsome and blessedly unaware—

“Tell me this,” Itori tries, “what does little Amon feel for Akira?”

“Love.” Kaneki answers—immediate, sharp, and sure.

“Yes.” She nods sagely, wizened and drunk as she is. “Very good. Now tell me this, what does that messenger brat feel for little Kimi? Think carefully brother dear, lest you end up biting your own tongue.”

The god of death frowns again but answers in that same sharp, clear voice: “Love, sister. Nishiki loves Kimi. It is a fact that I have known since I was a child on earth—theirs is a story the singers sing every spring during the hyacinth festival.”

“Indeed!” Itori laughs and uncoils a gold panther from her right arm, lying it flat on her palm. Kaneki watches as the armband springs to life, allowing a miniature panther of the purest gold to dance in his sister’s hand. “Now suppose my panther falls for—oh, let’s say a serpent. How do you suppose such affection will live when there is an undeniable difference that separates one from the other?” She poses the question with a blunt-edged delicacy that could only be charming coming from one such as herself. Yet, when she raises her head and amber collides with steely grey, Itori knows her brother has finally recognized her point.

“Enough, Itori.” He says lowly and she offers him half a smile.

“You love her. That much is clear.”

“I refuse to steal away her life—to rob her from all she holds dear, her family, her friends—“

“Being consort to a god is hardly the worst sort of punishment Tartarus could dish out.” Itori interrupts, rolling her eyes. “If she’s caught your eye then she _must_ be made of sterner stuff. The girl you're describing hardly sounds like the woman you’ve fallen in love with.”

“I—“ He begins before Itori cuts him off.

She stands suddenly, looming over Kaneki with an expression that is all at once open and unreadable. “Don’t make decisions _too_ rashly, oh lord of death. Keep an open mind but remember—there are those who are uniquely unfit for immortality.” Her words linger, crawling over Kaneki’s skin as he remembers the twisted, blood-smeared visage of Seidou Takizawa and the ripped flesh, the sinew from muscle splayed and broken in a half-formed cackle of broken delight—

“You’re suggesting I test her, aren’t you?” He says faintly, eyes distant and dark, focusing only on the indigo color of Touka’s hair, how gently the Roman breeze caressed it against her rose-pale cheek…

“I am.” Itori answers, knowing her little brother has drifted away but unable to find herself feeling anything other than apprehensive joy. “Test her and you’ll see—if she’s captured your interest then this should be a simple matter of sport.”

This drags him back to reality with all the force and fury of an ill-tempered Zeus. “And if it’s not?”

Itori pats his cheek. “Don’t think so negatively, king of all below—I’m sure you have enough dead philosophers to answer that question for you.” She laughs lightly, kissing the tip of his nose before vanishing in a flurry of gold and violet.

He blinks. Really, Kaneki thinks, he _must_ get those portal seals fixed. He can’t have Itori barging in _all_ the time simply because she’s cracked one of their codes.

 

* * *

 

There is something sinister in her father’s face—something dark and vile and ill-tempered but Touka says nothing, drinks nothing, eats nothing. Across sits her future husband and his father, acting as if they hadn’t just insulted their host in every which way, continuing to talk and preen as if they had only livened the conversation.

_Pompous, ignorant, atrocious sons of bitches—_

“Touka.” The quiet, dignified voice of her uncle interrupts Touka’s inner tirade.

“Yes?”

“Start coughing.”

She blinks, looking mildly confused before deciding _why the hell not. Death, at this point, might be more interesting._

Seconds later, Touka’s slightly over-exaggerated coughs fill the air and her father turns to look at her with growing alarm. “Touka? Are you alright?” He asks worriedly and she feels the tiniest bit of guilt surging through her but _honestly,_ she _can’t_ stand this any longer. This—this _pathetic,_ inexcusable _farce._

She already feels half ready to _scream._

Their dinner guests, ever observant people, take notice.

“Gracious child! What in Jupiter’s name—! Arata, you didn’t tell me the girl was _ill!_ ” The fat man with the awful, ruddy cheeks shouts with an accusatory gaze, leaning away from the banquet table as if Touka were infectious. “Is it the plague? _Jupiter almighty_ —! It isn’t the plague is it?”

“Hardly.” Her Uncle Yomo intercedes before Touka can lash out. “A mild spring fever is all. It’s been going around the inner city.” His smooth, placid voice instantly quells the tension and Touka wonders if that particular characteristic simply bypassed both her and Ayato when they were being born.

“Apologies senator,” she smiles prettily at the obnoxious oxen with the red face and affronted expression, “general,” she nods at his son, a handsome young man with sharp, glass-cut features and coloring as pale as the winter sun. His ash-blonde hair and pale grey eyes are not unhandsome but his silence—stony and ice-cold—unnerve (and if she’s being honest, _irritate_ ) her.

Her soon-to-be fiancé gives her a stoic nod. “My lady.” He acknowledges, voice as wintry as the rest of him.

“Get some rest girl, we can’t have you falling ill before the wedding!” His pompous, overbearing father adds and the last of Touka’s control snaps.

Her uncle, if he notices, says nothing.

Rising, Touka fixes the man with a sharp-edged smile that’s more vicious than amiable. “I thank you for your careful attention to my health but I beg you take some of that same consideration and turn it towards yourself—after all, the feast is not yet over and our table has already been half-cleared. Indigestion is a terrible thing.” She smiles again, watching with savage glee as Senator Tertius Viridius Petreius chokes on his own indignation, sputtering out half-formed words and turning a rather hideous shade of purple.

His son, she notes quietly, says nothing though the corner of his mouth has quirked up slightly—as if…amused?

She blinks, wondering if her life sentence of marriage might not be as terrible as she first thought.

To her right her father looks more appalled than embarrassed but, bound by social convention, manages a very convincing _Touka!_ shouted with just the right amount of admonition and reprimand.

Her uncle, Touka notes, has merely taken another deep— _very_ deep—drink of wine.

She laughs.

 

The spiraling staircase that leads to her room allows the indigo-haired girl a moment to catch her breathe and soothe her frantic heartbeat. She knows— _knows_ —that she has been born for this, to one day be sold like chattel to the highest bidder because it was the _norm._ Convention, tradition, honor, and duty dictated their lives and she is the daughter to one of Rome’s most prominent senators. Her brother has secured fame and fortune and now she must secure the alliances. It’s unfair that Ayato must be the one to bleed for their family, to be sent thousands of miles away to some foreign land to govern foreign people and learn a foreign tongue while Touka remains in Rome, surrounded by familiarity—

_But…_

Some part of her—some wretched, curious part of her—thinks it’s Ayato who’s gotten the better part of the deal. Perhaps they should have left when they had to chance—escaped Rome for Alexandria because at least then, they could be _together._ Her, father, Ayato, and Uncle Yomo. They could be together, free from the scrutiny they now lived under, free to remember what _family_ felt like before mother died and war broke out and death was all they knew.

Taking a breathe, Touka steadies herself against the cool cream walls of the villa, eyes closing as she remembers that this is _not_ the end of the world. Thousands— _millions_ —of young women have been bargained off for the same purposes she was now to serve—some, to far crueler men and at a far younger age. It was a miracle her father held out for so long, waiting until Touka’s eighteenth year before marriage negotiations took place at all.

There have never been any particular aspirations Touka aspired to as a child—to be a great lady like her mother, a loving daughter to her father, a good sister to her brother.

But now her mother was dead, her father was half-gone, and Ayato _was_ gone—long ago, Touka had thought the implications of her life fair and beautiful but war, strife, and death taught her otherwise. The world was an eclipse, thinly veiled delights hiding the greater torment of men. And war, that heady, fragrant cesspool of blood and hatred, was a yearning every man with even a shred of ambition ran towards, hands outstretched and eyes wide with greed.

Down would fall the houses and amphitheaters, the pyramids and aqueducts—the perpetual hatred borne from _difference_ would never die. One conquerer would always think himself greater than the rest and soon, blood would follow. It was an inevitable, bitter truth Touka had learned in a trial by fire—

After all, for women such as herself, for those who could not fight, what was there left to do except _live?_

 

* * *

 

He knocks on her door, waiting for the gauzy black veils to part before a rush of enchantment—cool and piercing—washes over Kaneki.

The door opens, and the god of death enters. The smell of blood and roses hangs heavy in the air, permeating his senses and making Kaneki half-blind to his surroundings.

But he knows these corridors—knows its crevices and halls, the shape-shifting walls and mounted heads. He knows them all.

“Well, well, well,” a lush, teasing voice echoes.

He tenses.

“What have we here? My little _darling_ of a protege—have you come to see me at long last?” The clinking of chains mingle with the sound of silk being dragged on the floor.

“I request an audience with you, Witch.” He says as politely as his sane mind will allow. “Will you see me?”

From within the shadows, she purrs. “Oh, I _always_ see you, Kaneki Ken—I’ve just been wondering how long it’d take for _you_ to see _me._ ” Her voice sounds sad—neglected, almost—and for a brief, instantaneous second, Kaneki’s eyes close and he is reminded of long, violet hair and soft, curving smiles. Of gentle touches and rose-red kisses, of her body pressed against his and her nails leaving rivulets of blood running down the front of his chest—

His eyes snap open and— _there she is,_ standing right in front of him. Her face is an inch from his, that same slow, seductive smile on her rose mouth, her full chest is warm and soft and his hands are suddenly on fire—the need to _touch_ her, to _hold_ her in his arms for just a fraction of a second roars through him.

She is powerful still, even whilst condemned.

“Rize.”

Her smile widens.

 

“Have some tea won’t you?” She tilts her head. “Or are you not thirsty? You _reek_ of the world above—“

Kaneki swallows. He can't let her deter him, can't let her words trick him because Rize has always  _adored_ toying with her prey.

“Once,” he says, voice strained, “you were the goddess of love and beauty.”

She nods. “Mmh, I _do_ remember that stint—fun while it lasted.” She laughs and it is a beautiful, monstrous sound that has him seeing red and he _hates_ himself for it. Even after all this time, she knows how to make him dance like a puppet on strings. 

“I need your help.”

She moves closer and for some strange, inexplicable reason—he is frozen in place, unable to move, and for all his power, he...he doesn’t _want_ to move. Not with her body feels like this, not when he can trace the soft, generous curves of her figure, how the thin chiffon of her dress can be _so easily ripped,_ how her pale, perfect throat is just _begging_ to be ravaged. He’s stronger now, stronger than he ever was when he was human—he can take her how he likes, make her _scream_ if he wants—

He bites his tongue so hard he can taste blood.

_Hera help him._

“You were stripped of your divinity but you have some power still.” His voice is even and measured, even as his nails dig into his hands, cutting into his heart’s palm. “I would ask that you perform a spell for me.”

“ _Oh?_ A spell?” She lowers her voice, whispering conspiratorially. “Who should it be for? No, no—let me guess!” She taps her chin in mock concentration. “Ah! I think I know who it’s for, little Kaneki—and, _don’t tell me!_ You’ve inherited the same predilections as that predecessor of yours—!”

“Rize—“

Suddenly, he’s pressed against the wall and her hands are on his shoulders, crimson eyes piercing as a wicked, tortuous smile curves on her mouth. Slowly, she tilts her head, cheek pressing against his own as her words brush against his ear, “it’s _her,_ isn’t it? _The human_. That silly, inane little girl who I ought to tear into with my bare hands—“ the silkiness of her words, the softness of her breath, is cut short with sudden abruptness when Kaneki’s hand shoots out and suddenly, Rize is being hoisted into the air, his fingers clutched tight around her throat as she chokes.

His eyes are wild, filled with  _hate_ and  _panic_ and whatever lust he felt for her has vanished, gone like the morning mist and replaced with a strange, inexplicable devotion Rize has only seen through potions and elixirs—

It's simply  _too much_ to handle. 

In the dimly lit caverns of her prison, Rize laughs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Er—I hadn’t planned on a second chapter but my Itori muse was insistent and once that was written, Rize wanted her turn in the spotlight so…here it is—? XD 
> 
> Feedback appreciated :)


	3. Smoke and Stardust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Rize: once the goddess of love and beauty (Aphrodite); she was stripped of her title and powers and exiled from Olympus by Zeus
> 
> \- Furuta: a former Trojan prince who was admired by Zeus and supposedly granted immortality (how he came to be immortal, no one really knows); he is now cupbearer to the gods with the attention of the most powerful god at his disposal (Ganymede) 
> 
> \- Eto: goddess of retribution and implacable justice (Nemesis) 
> 
> \- Tatara: the spirit of shrewdness, thoughtfulness, and sagacity (Epiphron) 
> 
> \- Uta: presented as the god of dreams (Morpheus) but he has been in existence far longer than his title suggests 
> 
> \- Takizawa: god of discord, strife, and chaos (Eris)

The stars of the night glowed silver in their infinite brightness, softly illuminating the whole of Rome as Nyx wove a tapestry of onyx satin across the black sky. The hour itself is late—late enough for street revelers to have gone to bed, for the prostitutes to have retired with customers and wine, and for Lady Touka to have opened her eyes, unable to sleep.

With a gaze of apathetic intrigue fixed out her open window, the indigo-haired girl quietly relishes in the warm summer heat, having never been one for winter. She sits up, a violet flower in the midst of her silk and taffeta bed, looking more frail and delicate than she felt as she pushes the silk off her, rising to her feet.

She can feel it—that strange, pulsating sensation building deep inside her, urging her ever closer to the night. It was as if someone had tied a string to the last bone of her ribcage and was now tugging it hence, dragging Touka _somewhere._ Somewhere away—far away, perhaps—from the cream walled elegance of her father’s villa, from the cinnamon and spice of Rome. She has known luxury all her life but still, whatever is calling her is promising more than just luxury.

Closing her eyes, Touka walks sightlessly towards the marble veranda, footsteps light and shallow, allowing the gentle night breeze to carry her. She has done this hundreds of time holding her younger brother’s hand, leading him to gaze at Zeus’s constellations, to trace the star’s patterns when the silence became too unbearable and he wanted, more than anything, the warmth of their dead mother’s arms.

Inhaling, Touka can smell moonflower, plums, and Roman wine; she can smell the faint scent of smoke from bonfires and torches, the ticklish fancy of olives and the sweet fragrance of roses from noblewomen’s glass bottles. She takes in all this—the gentle echo of the eventide, the crickets and soft hum of life, the sway of the poplar trees—

Blinking, Touka suddenly opens her eyes, confused and somewhat disoriented. There should have been nothing obstructing her path from her bed to the veranda—she has done this too many times to count and she knows the layout of her bedchamber. The settee and lounge to the right; her dressers, drawers, and boudoir to the left; the bed at the very center.

“Ayato?” She questions when the stars glow a little brighter, allowing her to see the shadowed figure of a tall, lean-figured man blocking her way. Her brother, she decides, it has to be her brother—there are guards wrapped around the villa like spires and her bedroom is on the second floor, high above the ground. “Ayato what are you _doing_ here?”

He says nothing and Touka rolls her eyes. “I know you liked to shirk responsibilities as a child but when you’re the governor of an entire _country_ —“

“My lady.”

And Touka stills, body frozen because the voice is deep—deep and gentle and soft as moonlight.

She is instantly on edge. This is not her brother—nor a servant of her father’s household.

“Who are you?” Touka’s voice is sharp as a knife and she forces her racing heartbeat to calm. She needs to stall for time, to learn _something._ “And how did you get into my bedchamber?”

“I—“

“If you’re a thief or a kidnapper looking for ransom then say so. I’ll go quietly if we leave now. No harm is to come to my father or uncle.” She continues, footsteps slow and steady as she backs her way to the boudoir that contains a blade six inches deep and edged with ridges to rip through the flesh. “Say the word,” Touka continues, dark eyes never leaving his—and, is it her imagination or does he look…sad? Confused even.

Disappointed?

“I would never harm you,” the man says, almost afraid to move, “I—didn’t know how else to approach you.”

“A knock on the door would have worked just fine.” Touka snaps, sounding more irritated than she had any right to. After all, this man could very well snap her neck and leave her mutilated body hanging off the rafters of Rome but—she’s always had a bit of a temper. Especially since this no-name bastard just _broke into her home._ “I’m more than willing to interact with just about anyone, _except_ strange prowlers who can seemingly levitate into my bedchamber during the midnight hour.” 

She can't quite make out his face in this weak light but she swears she sees his mouth twitch, as if he's trying very, very hard not to laugh but she's not trying to be funny. She's infuriated and half-terrified because what right does he have to stand there looking so calm when she can feel death on her shoulder?

For Hera's sake, she  _just_ turned eighteen and she is  _not_ about to die before she sees her idiot brother again. 

The strange man, if he can hear Touka's raging thoughts, says nothing—just steps into the pale starlight.

She sees a flash of silver hair, intelligent grey eyes, and an impossibly endearing blush that should _not_ have been on the face of a potential madman. 

“I didn’t mean to frighten you," he murmurs hesitantly—haltingly—as if he were trying to piece a new language together. "And my…work…does not allow for much leisure time.”

His voice is quite nice Touka decides but his words do nothing to alleviate the aura of slight insanity that has her reeling, fingers trying desperately to pry open the false drawer beneath her vanity. Blindly, Touka reaches for the little vial of belladonna her brother had given her before his departure to Egypt.

She needs to buy time.

“If what you say is true then I’m sure you would have seen me at the agora. I go there quite frequently and if you wanted to speak to me all you needed to do was something interesting and I would have given you the time of day.”

A surprised smile quirks on his lips—sudden and unexpected, as if he hadn’t planned on smiling at all tonight.

 _Good,_ she thinks, _I’ve caught him off guard._

“And if I had nothing interesting to contribute?” He walks closer, allowing Touka to see the smooth, pale planes of his face—the sharp cut of his jaw, the aristocratic delicacy of his cheekbones.

 _Hera...he’s beautiful,_ is the strange, singular thought that flashes through her mind before she reminds herself that this man, for all his loveliness, could be _psychotic._ Behind her back, her hands fumble with the little glass bottle and she silently prays to the great twelve that she might make it out of this alive.

Or at least with all her limbs intact. 

“Touka?” The man murmurs when she fails to reply and she curses how close he’s coming, she won’t be able to dip the blade in poison but she supposes a sharp stab to his left side might give her enough time to run out and alert the guards.

“Just tell me what you want!” She snaps, losing her last semblance of calm because that blasted bottle of belladonna won’t cooperate, her hands are beginning to sweat, she doesn’t know how long she’ll be able to keep her arms at such a twisted angle behind her back and _why_ in Hera’s sake is this _lunatic_ staring at her like she’s some sort of heavenly prize—? “You want gold? Jewelry? Infamy? Tell me what you want then get the _fuck_ out of my home!” She hisses, eyes narrowed with hate as she glares at him with a cruelty not seen outside the battlefield.

The stranger, if he’s taken aback, says nothing but his smile wilts and he has the decency to look ashamed—perhaps a little mournful as well but not surprised.

She has always been fire tempered steel, with a sharper edge than most.

When no words escape his lips, Touka forgets rationality and temperance and all those good virtues her governess failed to impale into her brain. She lashes out, a violent, volatile wildfire of blue-indigo.

 

A flame, Kaneki thinks, a flame so hot it turns blue. He watches as she produces an intricately carved knife from behind her back, its jagged edges glinting dangerously in the moonlight but, even more than that, Kaneki watches with awed wonder as her eyes come alight, burning with a heat that would put Helios to shame.

It's only when she attempts to stab him—yes, _stab_ him—that he comes out of his immobile state because who on earth would try and attack a _god?_

He dodges the blow with fluid ease, moving right as she angles left and somehow, she’s got it in her head that _no,_ he’s the one who'll be dying tonight and Kaneki can’t fathom _why._ He is lord of the Underworld, king of all below as Itori likes to say, and here was this girl who reminded him of the violet star, trying to eliminate his very existence from the world.

It is such a bizarre, inexplicable situation that Kaneki doesn’t quite know how to react. What does one do when the object of their affection is mercilessly trying to eviscerate them?

“Touka—“

“Save it.” She all but growls and moves into a stance that reminds Kaneki of the African panthers—all sleek movement and quick, blinding jabs before he can feel his temper rising.

“Put down the blade.” He tries again, voice gentle but firm because the iron in his soul won’t stand for this, even if he desires nothing more than the sight of her smile. A part of him doubts she’ll listen because she is _impulsive_ and _willful_ and so wonderfully determined that it makes him wonder what he could have accomplished if he had even a sliver of her blue-flame resolve—

But she surprises him again.

In the iridescent darkness, Touka pauses for a moment, looking at him with something like suspicion in her eyes but he _knows._

For all her fury and fire, she is perceptive and something in Kaneki’s tone was of an unearthly nature and she, having taken the hint, stops.

“Who are you.” She asks again, edging closer, cautious and unsure.

He doesn’t know what to say that will make her believe so he summons the smoky black chains that have become his trademark. They appear from behind his back, large and ominous as a film of onyx smoke begins to permeate the air. She watches wide-eyed as Kaneki gently lifts the knife from her hand, allowing his chains to wrap round her wrist until she realizes who he is. 

“You—you’re the death god?” She half-whispers, sounding more surprised than fearful and for that he is immeasurably, inscrutably _relieved._

She does not fear him and while that goes against all common rational sense regarding humans, who the Witch once—and still does—deride as lesser than them, Kaneki knows he would prefer lightening in this indigo-haired girl than subservience. _Anything,_ he thinks, but subservience.

“I am called Kaneki,” he offers, carefully taking a single step towards her.

“The god of death,” she looks at him, blatantly confused but curious. “The god of death in my bedchamber at the witching hour." She pauses. "And I attacked you with a knife.” There is a hint of embarrassment in her wry tone but Kaneki gives a soft laugh. She looks at him, surprised. “If this is the moment where I plunge into the hellish plane below then please say so. I would very much like to spend my last few moments outside.” Her words are sincere with only the barest hint of jest and for some reason, he feels an overwhelming sense of panic rise up in him.

“I would never wittingly cause harm to you.” He reassures, wondering how his predecessor succeeded in this ignoble task before remembering Lord Hades had _abducted_ the goddess of spring.

 _Right,_ he remembers, _that won’t work here._

“Might I ask a question, my lord?” She tacks on the 'my lord' like an afterthought, a formality. Not a frightened plea or desperate cry.

He smiles. “Of course.”

“ _Why are you here?_ ” She repeats again, stern and cool and reasonably apprehensive. 

Any other god would have struck her down by now for her impertinence and blatant disrespect but Kaneki has purposely chosen this method. This strange, all too human method of wanting her to see him as a man before she knew him to be a god.

He wants companionship, a touch of love if it can be earned—

Absently, one of her fingers brushes against the chain still wrapped around her wrist and he immediately retracts it because even the slightest  _touch_ has him wondering about constellations and forgotten dreams, of sharp-tongued girls with a fiery temper who can catch him off guard and set him ablaze.   

(And more than anything, Kaneki thinks, eyes fixed on the pale pink of Touka’s mouth, he wants her love—just a taste, a morsel.) 

“I would ask that you indulge me,” he finally says, “and close your eyes.”

She looks at him, unmoving and silent for one fearful second. Then, her eyes flutter shut.

He is surprised by her obedience and something must give him away because a little half-smile appears on her lips as she crosses her arms. “You are a god,” she says, “and I shall obey your commands for the simple fact that my father is just down the hall and my uncle has not slept peacefully in over a decade. Do with me as you will but when I die, just know this—you’ll have my soul for all eternity and I have been told that my persistence is a terror to behold.”

A breathy, unexpected chuckle leaves Kaneki’s lips. “Was that a threat?”

She twists at the ornament wrapped around her upper arm and shrugs. “It could be interpreted as such.” She answers cryptically, eyes still closed. “Now will you tell me why you’re here?”

“One moment.” He answers and he can see the impatience in her rising, the desire to lash out and demand but he gives her no opportunity to do so.

One hand comes to gently caress her jaw and she stills immediately, eyes still closed but her breathing becomes shallower—less controlled. It takes less than half a second for Kaneki to lean in, to look at her face that is far too angelic for this earthly world before his own mouth comes to gently press against hers.

A kiss. One soft, sweet kiss on her lips and he feels himself falling, falling, falling.

Itori had said he should test her, to see if she is worthy of his love, but Itori is wrong Kaneki thinks. She is already worthy of his affections.

Now the matter is, how does he set about earning hers?

 

* * *

 

There is a peculiar feeling of disconnect in Rize as she throws together a concoction of herbs, neck still burning from the way little Kaneki had wrapped his fingers around her throat, choking her into submission. “When did my little boy grow a backbone?” She murmurs to herself, slicing open the palm of her hand to drip seven drops of blood into the cauldron. She has always been good with spells.

Spells, potions, elixirs, treatments—even now, trapped in a special pocket of Tartarus built by Lord Hades before he retired to god knows where.

She laughs.

Now _there_ was a man who could put the singers to shame, micromanaging every travesty until it became a full blown tragedy. A cold fish, Rize had decided some centuries ago, a cold fish in a lonely pond with a penchant for moonlight and scythes.

Glancing down at her half formed mixture, she throws in another foxglove root and sets the thing on fire as she waits for everything to unify into that one pesky little potion the new god of death has demanded she make.

 _What a naughty little boy,_ she wants to laugh, hand coming to rub against her throat, _sneaking to the surface without permission or guidance. Tsk, tsk—he’s more like_ ** _him_** _than I thought._

She hisses as she attempts to step back, one hand coming to swiftly brush back the chains around her ankles. The floor is a loose coalescing of her dried and spilled blood but at least the color was pleasing to the eye. Her restraints had, after all, been crafted by Hephaestus (on Zeus's orders) and designed to make it difficult for her to move anywhere at all.

But this prison—her rayless, pathless prison—had been built by Kaneki when he still cared for her, when he was merely the successor instead of the god and her deceptions had been playful rather than catastrophic. Was it so wrong to entertain herself every once in a while? Eternity was such a long stretch of time and Rize had grown bored—infinitely, undeniably _bored._ A terrifying dangerous concept when one held power beyond measure and a ruthless desire to implement it onto the world.

She sighs. 

Back during those enchanted years of maelstrom charm—and even a few decades after—Kaneki had worshipped at her feet, sweet and adoring with an innocence that was confounding. When her fall from grace became an inevitability, she had decided in those few, brief moments that no one, god or man, would strip her of her immortality.

She could do as she liked with the gift she'd been given but Rize, oh Rize had always been a greedy thing. Transferring it to Kaneki had never been an act of affection but she needed a placeholder and he fit the role well enough.

Rize never imagined her shy-mouthed little Kaneki would grow so skilled at wielding her gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes this fic is loosely based on the myth of Eros and Psyche but with a little bit of a darker twist :) 
> 
> (Side note: I really can't believe I'm making this a full-fledged fic but I am and it is terrifying lmao there's a big ensemble cast but I'll mostly be focusing only on the major players)
> 
> Reviews make my day (seriously, feedback would be truly appreciated since this one-shot has somehow become a multichapter)


	4. You Are My Supernova

If there is one thing Kaneki has learned from his extended life it’s that gods play by an entirely different set of rules. Gods are immortal. They do not age, they do not wither, and, most importantly, it takes quite a while for them to learn. Some might argue that gods are trapped in stasis, forever bound to their initial emotions and viewpoints but Kaneki disagrees. While gods may have been born into bias they are capable of introspection—even if they choose not to act on it most of the time.

It’s the first lesson Itori ever taught him and it’s the one that weighs on him most heavily. Immortal beings, he has come to realize, _can_ adapt. They are fluid like water, malleable and reluctantly yielding. Most people simply can’t see it because gods, as with all creatures of power, are _stubborn._

Stubborn, arrogant, willful, and often intolerable. These are three traits he hopes to avoid (he’d never been one for confrontation—even as a mortal) but he finds that with godlike powers comes godlike audacity and it is a force that obliterates what remains of his human restraint.

It’s also the reason Touka is now lying unconscious in his bed, eyes closed and looking so unattainably beautiful that it physically hurts him to look at her.

He’s never been good with women—forever lacking the skill and finesse of finer suitors and his painfully shy disposition, coupled with a quiet voice and tendency to defer to anyone of higher authority, made the concept of courtship a vague and indecipherable idea he never quite grasped. (That, and the fact that his first love, the woman he would have willingly carved out his own heart for, had turned out to be a witch who had cursed him with her gift and forced him away from the only person who’d ever loved him.)

_Hide…_

Kaneki grits his teeth and shakes his head, willing reason and apathy to overcome his more sentimental tendencies. He is a god and he must separate himself from earthly regrets.

With a tentative hand, the god of death allows himself to slip closer to the bed, one finger tracing her delicate cheekbone, remembering how her skin glowed under the moonlight and the sharp, sure way she’d moved as she angled the knife in her hand. This girl— _woman_ —had tried to kill him with all the fire and passion of Nemesis. She had yielded to the soft, urgent press of his lips against hers, had allowed him to tangle one desperate hand in her silky indigo hair, had allowed Kaneki to taste the sharp sweetness of her mouth as he held her closer, wanting to ingrain the memory of her body—all soft curves and pale skin and the rhythmic fluttering of her heart—into him.

By the time they parted, he was trembling and her mouth was a rose in full bloom. She had looked at him, assessing and shrewd, and defied all logic by pulling him in for another kiss. One that was far less gentle—all teeth and tongue and nails against skin.

And in that moment, it became nigh impossible to ignore it. That selfish, vindictive, _possessive_ streak alive in all gods—he could no longer repress the beast with whatever tattered scraps of morality he had left. Not then, not with her pressing into him so fully—so _completely_ —that his rational mind faltered and all he could think was _mine, mine, mine,_ ** _mine_** _._

“Will you hate me?” Kaneki whispers softly, forefinger ghosting over her lips, pink and full like the sunset, and wondered if she would allow him a kiss before she left.

He is _not_ Hades.

He will not keep her here against her will.

…But he _will_ test her.

Part of him can feel the hypocrisy surging through his veins like hot tar but the bigger part—the greater part—simply does not care. And why should he? He is the god of death, the successor of Hades and the deity all humans fear more than any other. He is lord of the Underworld and knows that his actions, however abrasive they appear to be, pale in comparison to that of his brothers and sisters. _They_ have committed crimes of a far worse nature but they are _gods_ he reminds himself. Surely exceptions can be made when one is immortal—when one can feel their own heart twisting, yearning for someone with such potency that condemnation was nothing more than a word that carried no weight. 

He can’t explain it—does not know if _anyone_ can explain it—but he loves this indigo-haired girl with such an intensity that it frightens him. There is a familiarity about her that transcends the cosmic heavens. He can somehow envision it, some three billion years ago when the universe was stardust and supernovas, when they were together, the very breath of them stirring the music of their souls to wake.

She resonates in him, a piece of her echoing in the nebula of his tarnished and forgotten soul. 

He wants to lie in her arms, press the soft curves of her body against him, and burn into her a million kisses beneath the earth’s equator.

_A smile, a glance—_

It should frustrate him, he thinks, how deeply he has devoted himself to this one human girl with a finite life and no idea of the power she now commands over his mind and body. (And if it were Tsukiyama writing this tragedy, he might script something ridiculous—like how she holds his humanity and heart but Kaneki knows better. His heart is a tattered mess of misery, broken and bruised and battered beyond all recognition. His soul…well.

Rize’s gift came at a price after all.)

Closing his eyes, Kaneki shoves aside the rising panic that makes him feel all too human. He squares his shoulders, clenching his jaw, and prepares.

“Touka,” he whispers, one hand against her cheek, “wake up.” To his delight, she stirs gently against him, body stretching and uncoiling beneath the silk sheets, still blissfully unaware of where she has been taken.

Guilt, heavy and dreadful, now sinks into the pit of his stomach.

“Touka.” He repeats, watching how she comes to life, one hand wiping the sleep from her eyes and mouth opening in a gentle yawn before, at last, violet eyes open. 

“Kaneki.” She breathes in a rush, sounding both perturbed and excited before remembering the events of last night. He ignores the pain that shoots through him when she pushes herself against the headboard, eyes mistrustful and, well—

He can’t honestly blame her.

Even if the god in him is reeling at such a slight because doesn’t she _know?_ He is an immortal, far above her and she ought to be _grateful_ he’s even sparing her a passing _glance_ —

He bites his tongue until he tastes blood.

Touka, if she notices his stiff movements, pursues an entirely different topic of conversation.

“And here I thought I’d hallucinated the whole thing but it appears the Fates simply love proving me wrong. I’ve truly attacked a god with a knife haven’t I?” The curve of her mouth twitches up as she appraises him, cautious and careful but with a hint of humor in her violet glance.

He wants to hold onto that smile for as long as he can. “You have excellent aim.”

“I didn’t even scratch you.” She notes, bringing her legs to her chest. “Ayato would be disappointed.” Touka pauses. “But I take it you’re not here for another sparring session?”

He takes a deep breath. “No.”

Touka arches a brow. “Unless all gods have a tendency to break into people’s rooms to simply _chat_ with them…” she trails off, clearly confused and somewhat annoyed but sensible enough not to give voice to her irritation.

Kaneki hesitates, wondering if it might be best to give her another sleeping draught and talk about all this in the morning. Wouldn’t it be better—kinder, even—if she adapted to her surroundings first?

And for a brief, hesitant second he considers following through with the idea but one look—one _look_ —into Touka’s fathomless eyes has him discarding it with no small amount of shame. Gods shouldn’t dance around such a simple thing, he reminds himself. Gods are, well… _gods._ And wasn’t this Eto’s fondest excuse? To do as one willed because eternity was such a long time to wallow in regret.

 _Take the plunge, Kaneki,_ he can hear Eto’s smirk, _I’d hate to pull out that old adage but ‘carpe diem’ certainly sounds applicable now, doesn’t it?_

 _Yes,_ he thinks, _it does._

“I’ve…actually come to you for an entirely different reason.” He begins, watching how she looks a little annoyed but not at all hostile. “You see, I never meant for this to happen but circumstances aside, what has occurred cannot be changed. You’ll find that we’re not in your bedchamber anymore.” As soon as the words leave his lips, Touka is immediately on guard. Her head jerks up and she’s on her knees in an instant, back ramrod straight as she scans his private quarters.

“How did I—I mean, how could I _not—_ and what even _is_ this—?” Her eyes jump from object to object and her thoughts tumble out in one incoherent sentence that Kaneki doesn’t quite follow but understands all the same. The architecture of his bedchamber is unfamiliar and far more elaborate than mere human designs. His domed ceiling displaying the night’s constellations had been a gift from Nyx and the sheets pooling around Touka were spun by Akira herself. He watches as she carelessly grabs a fistful of onyx black, eyeing the fabric with an expression of disgust. “This isn’t silk—this isn’t like _anything_ I’ve ever seen before.” He can sense the hatred in her gaze before she even looks up. “ _Where_ have you taken me?” She spits out, courtesy and self-preservation flying out the window.

“My kingdom.” Kaneki replies simply and knows that it’s cowardice that’s allowed him to answer like this. Long ago, Itori accused Kaneki of displaying two personalities—Janus faced, and not even a worshipper of her shrine she’d joked. Kaneki had laughed along while slowly panicking because—

He shakes his head, forcing away that train of thought because Touka is here now and— _comfort,_ some dim recess of his mind whispers. _Give her comfort—answer her question._

Cautiously, he takes another step towards her, eyes watching for any sign of discomfort before speaking. “If you’re referring to where you are now, then the answer is simple. We’re in my private quarters and I promise, _no one_ will harm you here—“

His words are cut off when Touka all but falls out of his bed, scrambling to her feet all the while.

She approaches him recklessly—in nothing but a nightgown and the gentleman in him averts his eyes but she takes that as a blatant sign of disregard.

When she’s barely a foot away, Touka hisses the words that pierce through his patchwork heart. “Take me back,” she demands, “I’m useless to you here—you don’t _need_ me here. Bring me _home._ ” 

“What makes you think you know what I need better than myself?” She has no idea the depth of his affection for her but he doubts she’ll want to hear it now. “You will be treated comfortably here and your father—“

“Don’t talk about my father!” Her eyes are two comet falls blazing with barely concealed rage and, Kaneki knows, futile anger. He’s seen it so many times on the faces of so many people though he’s never really processed what that emotion meant.

He opens his mouth to say something reassuring—something _comforting_ —but she beats him to it. Again.

“I know you’re a god,” she spits back, hatred and utter disdain coating her voice, “I know you’re a god and I can’t do a damn thing you don’t want me to but you can’t control what I feel.” Her voice is low—poisonous—and running with an undercurrent of danger that makes him wonder if she truly is human. “I’ll hate you.” She promises, “I’ll hate you and eventually, you’ll hate me and won’t that make a pretty picture? The two of us, _loathing_ each other for eternity until one day I claw this thrice damned coffin open and _escape._ You can survive down here because death is all you know but I won’t let you leave me down here to _rot_ —“ she takes a breath, still daring to move closer, “I will  _not_ be like Persephone—meek and dutiful in her handmade prison. You have me, but I _won’t_ let you keep me. Not for a second, _my lord._ ”

 

* * *

  

Nishiki thinks Kaneki is an idiot and no amount of divine power is going to change his mind or opinion.

“Do you know how much trouble you’ll be in once word of this reaches Olympus?” He is at his weekly tea with the successor of Hades but all pretense of sociability has been disregarded after he learns that Kaneki is more like his predecessor than anyone thought possible. “Well?” The messenger god hisses. “ _Do you?_ Or do you think she’ll fall desperately in love with you and we can forget this skirmish ever happened?”

“I don’t expect _that_ —“

“We have precedents— _rules_ —for this kind of thing and you’ve just gone and disregarded every single one of them.”

The white-haired god gives a vague expression of contrition but Nishiki knows his concern isn’t focused on any punishment that’ll be doled out by Zeus. No one paid much attention to that hedonistic drunk these days.

“I’ve outlined the possible tests for her,” Kaneki says after a while, “and once she completes them she can drink from the cup of Hebe and—“

“You know that’s not how it works. Now that she’s in your realm you _know_ what’ll happen if she fails.”

_Execution._

“She won’t.” He insists, sounding far less sure than Nishiki would like. “Touka _won’t,_ she’s strong and capable—“

“And infinitely human.” He toys with the rim of his teacup, torn between annoyance and pity. “These tests aren’t designed for them.” He says at last. “They’re designed for _failure._ ” _After all, there’s a reason why only one human ever passed them and that was because the god she was in love with guided her every step of the way._ Nishiki spares a glance at the now blank faced Kaneki. “You won’t be able to help her.”

He looks down, black vapor swirling around him in the weakest imitation of a shield. “I know.”

“You should have followed precedent.”

Kaneki looks up, eyes grey and sad and so haltingly _human._ “I know.”

“You should’ve come to me or Itori for help.”

“I _know—_ “

The nephew of Hermes sighs. “I can hide this from Zeus for a while—at least another week—thank Hera you didn’t kidnap a goddess. The amount of paperwork for that would’ve been a migraine in the making but since this one’s a human, it’ll be easy to bypass Iris before she lets anything incriminating slip to our liege lord.” Nishiki spits out that title with foul distaste, face impassive as he crosses his arms while Kaneki looks at him with an expression of stunned bewilderment.

“Are you—Nishiki, are you going to…?”

The messenger god rolls his eyes, one hand coming to adjust his glasses. “Don’t grovel.”

Kaneki looks ready to thank him— _ugh_ —but reconsiders. The black vapor surrounding him darkens, becoming denser and heavier and making the former human-turned-god look far more intimidating. “A _god_ doesn’t _grovel._ ” He reiterates, eyes warm with gratitude.

“Good.” Nishiki hides a smile. “I’ll get Kimi to come down here to see how well your human can cope with such a dramatic environment shift and then you’ll most likely hate me for the next half century.” At the sight of Kaneki’s confused expression, the messenger god gives a gesture up above. “I’ve actually got _work_ to do, god of death. So I’m sending someone in who’ll be able to formulate your tests so she can actually survive them.”

“Who?”

“You’ll know when he gets here. That gourmet glutton can never stay away from you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Hebe: goddess of youth and former cupbearer to the gods; anyone who drinks from her cup is blessed with the gift of eternal youth
> 
> \- The person Nishiki is thinking that passed all three trials is Psyche, who was tested by Aphrodite to see if she was truly worthy of her son’s (Eros) affections
> 
> A/N: Did I plan on introducing Tsukiyama? Nope. Somehow he just…appeared? Apologies for the long wait! 
> 
> Reviews make me update faster, I promise :)


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